Misfits
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Conviction". Losing her car keys presents Sarah Cavendish with an unexpected opportunity to strengthen her tentative working relationship with Boyd. Complete. T for language. Enjoy! Go on, be brave...


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

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><p><strong>AN:** _This sort of happened because I watched "Waterloo" yesterday.  
>Please don't hate on me - give it a chance, hmm? Someone was going<br>to tackle this pairing sooner or later. It's only short, so if you're a  
>devoted BG shipper be brave and read it to the end before making a  
>final decision on whether or not to lynch me, OK? ;)<em>

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><p><strong>Misfits<strong>

by Joodiff

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><p>"Oh, I really don't need this," she mutters to herself, glaring at her desk for inspiration. She checks her pockets again then turns her attention back to her bag. Again, the methodical search proves fruitless, and glowering, she slumps back in her chair. "Fuck's sake…"<p>

It's late – pushing towards ten – she's tired, she's stressed and all she wants to do is go home to her basement flat, have a drink or two and crawl into bed. Weary and frustrated, she sits up straight again and mentally runs through the last few hours. No inspiration strikes, and she gives in to a flash of temper, hitting the smooth surface of her desk sharply with an open palm.

Not too far away, a deep voice asks mildly, "Problem?"

Sarah jumps, startled. He's a big man and it still surprises her just how quietly he can move when he wants to. She looks up and round at him, grimacing. "Lost my bloody car keys."

Boyd puts his hands in his pockets and regards her contemplatively. The bruising to his cheekbones is still dark and painfully obvious, and he looks every inch as brutally tired as she feels. He says, "When did you last have them?"

Ordinary. Banal, even. Not the way they usually communicate. She shrugs, "Not sure – Spence was driving earlier."

He doesn't waste time asking if she's sure she's looked everywhere, and that at least pleases her. The very last thing she needs is to be patronised by an older male colleague. He says, "Spare set?"

"Yeah. At home. I suppose I'd better call the recovery people."

He snorts. "Won't do you any good. They'll get you into the car, but they won't start it for you."

"Great," Sarah says, irked by his nonchalance. "Just… fucking great. Thanks for that, Boyd."

To her surprise, he smirks at her. It's not an expression she's used to seeing from him. He says, "Your lack of initiative is seriously disappointing, DSI Cavendish."

Stung, she says, "What the hell do you expect me to do? Hot-wire the bloody thing?"

He shrugs his wide shoulders. "It's an option."

"Yeah, well. Maybe if I could, I would."

Boyd shakes his head slowly, a trace of amusement clear in his expression. "You're a copper in London and you don't know how to TWOC a car?"

"Oh, and I suppose you do?"

The smirk reappears. "Maybe."

She sighs impatiently. "Can you get my car started, or not?"

"Yeah," he says casually. "Of course I can. But trust me, you won't like the repair bill."

"Thanks, Boyd. You're being a great help. Really."

"Give me ten minutes," he says, already turning away. "And I'll run you to your place to get your spare keys."

It's not a negotiable offer, Sarah realises. It's a simple statement of intent. Something inside her bridles at his high-handedness, but as she realises just how tired she is, she bites back the pointed refusal that rises to her lips. It's the most obvious and sensible solution to her current problem, after all.

-oOo-

"Thanks," she says grudgingly as he pulls the car into the kerb opposite her flat. Something makes her reluctantly add, "It could take me a few minutes to find them – you want to come in?"

She expects Boyd to refuse, to say he'll wait for her in the car, but he shrugs slightly and releases his seatbelt. "Why not?"

It's something to do with what happened between them in that derelict warehouse, Sarah thinks. Something to do with the tentative bond forming between them. Their relationship so far has mainly been studiously polite, but chilly – the result of residual resentment on both sides. She didn't want to join the CCU just as much as he didn't want someone not hand-picked by himself joining the team. The initial chill had started to thaw just a little anyway, but the events in that warehouse… Maybe they're both a little closer to understanding and accepting each other. Her mind starts to turn in a direction she doesn't want, sudden guilt needling at her. She forces the thoughts away. She's already done what she can to put things right.

Boyd follows her across the road, down the steps, and as she reaches to unlock the door, something patently absurd makes her say, "Place is in a bit of a mess, I'm afraid. I don't seem to be home enough to tidy up."

Behind her, he snorts. "On a DSI's salary you should be able to afford to pay someone to come in."

She glances over her shoulder at him. "Is that what you do?"

"Too bloody right I do. Cleaning woman comes in twice a week. Otherwise I'd be living in a tip."

No significant other, she thinks. Just like her. Gilbert and Sullivan were right - a policeman's lot is not a happy one. Opening the door, she's struck by a twinge of embarrassment, finds herself hoping there's nothing incriminating lying around in plain sight. Underwear. Empty bottles. The end of a half-smoked joint. That sort of thing. Switching on the lights reveals a normal level of disorganisation but not – that she can immediately see – anything to make her cringe in utter mortification. Boyd follows her in, and as Sarah turns to close the door behind him she forms a quick impression of just how big he suddenly appears. Tall, broad-shouldered with that late-middle-aged stockiness that suggests he's maybe a little heavier than he should be, but fit enough despite it. Stupid, irrelevant thoughts.

Tyson comes weaving out of the shadows at the edge of the room, tail aloft as he voices his displeasure at her late arrival. There's unquestionably a note of amusement in Boyd's voice as he says, "Someone's pleased to see you."

"That's Tyson," she tells him. "Hang on, I'd better feed him or he won't leave you alone."

"Single woman with cat," Boyd comments.

She shoots him a look. "Divorced man with cleaning lady."

His dark eyebrows quirk at her. "You've done your homework, then."

"I like to know exactly who I'm working with. Sit down, will you? You're making me nervous hovering about."

Sounding dignified, he says, "I don't hover."

"Yeah, right. You don't hover, you don't shout and you don't pace about."

"Nervous energy," he says unexpectedly, but he does settle gingerly onto the compact sofa.

Quickly, she puts food in Tyson's bowl, then tugs open the drawer where the spare car keys live. The drawer's a mess, full of the everyday detritus of life – bits of string, a couple of screwdrivers, a roll of tape. A tube of glue, long since hardened into something fossil-like; the bell from the collar Tyson refuses to wear. No keys. Sighing heavily to herself in exasperation, Sarah intensifies her search. Still no keys. Without thinking, she grumbles, "Bloody hell."

"Can't find them?"

Strangely, she'd almost forgotten about her visitor. She says grimly, "They must be here somewhere…"

Without warning, he's at her shoulder. Again, she's astonished at just how quietly he moves. He says, "Let me have a look."

"There's so much crap in here…"

No car keys. What started as an annoyance starts to loom before her as a massive disaster, an insurmountable problem. For a moment she stands stock still, head down as she concentrates on breathing slowly. Boyd's voice says, "Relax. Keep calm. We can sort this out."

Sarah looks up sharply, and quite suddenly she realises he understands. She attempts a shaky smile. "Sorry."

He watches her for a moment, his dark eyes intent, and then he shrugs. "It's not a problem."

"It's stupid," she says with considerable bitterness. "I used to be so… together. Now even something stupid like this…"

"PTSD," he says, as if it's the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. "It takes time. But you will get through it."

She grunts, not at all reassured. "You're sure about that, are you?"

"Pretty sure," he says with a slight, surprisingly gentle smile. "But I think you should consider talking to Grace about it."

Sarah can't quite help pulling a face. "Oh, I'm sure she'd be absolutely delighted to hear you say that. She doesn't like me much."

Boyd frowns, as if honestly puzzled. "What makes you say that?"

"Women's intuition," Sarah says cagily, wondering if he's really as oblivious as he seems. "Oh, bollocks. I'll find the sodding keys later and take a cab into work in the morning. D'you want a drink?"

She expects him to refuse; half wants him to refuse. He surveys her for a moment before saying, "Yeah, okay. Got any Scotch?"

"Fuck off. It's proper Irish whiskey or nothing in this household."

-oOo-

He's an attractive man. Has the sort of open good looks that only mature with age. Predictably, the more Sarah drinks, the more attractive he becomes. She's not sure at what point Boyd abandons the pretence of not drinking too much because he's driving, but she's fairly sure he's now hammering the whiskey bottle just as hard as she's hammering the gin bottle. The alcohol doesn't seem to have a great effect on him, but she does notice a subtle lowering of his defences. Bluntly, she says, "It gets under your skin, doesn't it? That we're the same rank?"

The look he gives her is long and considering. He says, "It did."

"Past tense?"

"As head of the unit, I'm still your commanding officer, regardless of rank."

"My promotion was tactical," she admits. "After what happened."

He shrugs. "So what? It'll still open doors for you in the long run."

"What, once I've got my head sorted?" Sarah asks, only a touch cynical.

"Exactly. You won't stay kicking your heels amongst old bones for a moment longer than you have to, will you?"

"Sorry 'bout that."

"Don't be. I'll be glad to see the back of you."

"Thanks, Boyd," she says wryly.

He grins unexpectedly, the expression momentarily making him look years younger. "I have enough trouble with Grace and Eve. God save me from the relentless march of feisty, independent women."

"There," she says, not really thinking her words through, "and I thought you had a bit of a thing for strong women."

Boyd's reply is an easy, "Oh, I do. I assuredly do."

"Thought so."

He looks at her sideways. Boldly, surprisingly, he says, "So what does it for you, DSI Cavendish?"

Definitely too much whiskey, Sarah thinks. However sober he appears. She hears herself say, "Confidence. Assertiveness. I like my men to behave like men."

"Alpha males, hmm?"

"If you like," she says. They could be heading into dangerous territory, she recognises. Peter Boyd is very definitely an alpha male. Attempting to salvage the situation a little, she adds, "But don't worry, you're a good twenty years too old for me."

Boyd's reaction is not what she expects. He laughs. "Break it to me gently. You're not into the whole older man thing, then?"

She shrugs. "Dunno, never tried it."

Raising his glass to her in mock-salute, he says, "I almost wish I was pissed enough to tell you that you don't know what you're missing."

-oOo-

"Got any more whiskey?"

"Nope," she says. "Can't stand the bloody stuff. Are you gonna call a taxi…?"

"Or…?"

She regards him solemnly from her end of the sofa. "Or… are you staying?"

Undaunted, the dark eyes study her intently. "I think I'm probably staying."

The news neither alarms nor beguiles her. "Okay. On the sofa, or…?"

"Oh, I rather think 'or'. Don't you?"

Absolutely aware of what she's agreeing to, she says laconically, "Yeah."

Boyd laughs, short and harsh. "Christ, that was easy."

"Piss me off and I might change my mind," Sarah tells him.

Distinctly complacent, he says, "I don't think you will."

"Why?"

His dark gaze is steady, confident. "Because you're pissed enough to want me to fuck you, and I'm pissed enough to think it's a good idea."

She looks at him for a moment. "And Grace?"

Suddenly wary, he asks, "What about Grace?"

"Don't you think it might just give her even more reason to dislike me?"

"I wasn't planning on discussing it with her, to be honest. And what on earth has it got to do with her?"

Sarah snorts. "God, are you really that blind?"

"Apparently so, because I have absolutely no clue what you're implying."

"She fancies you, Boyd. In fact, I think she more than fancies you," she says. Searching his face for a reaction, she slowly adds, "Oh, please… don't tell me you didn't realise…?"

He looks genuinely bewildered. "It's not like that. We're friends."

"Yeah, and she'd like you to be a lot more."

"I think you've had way too much to drink, Sarah. We fight like cat and dog; always have done. I'm the last man alive Grace would look twice at, believe me."

"You think that, do you?" Sarah asks him, amused.

"Listen, I don't know what's put this idea in your head – but you're a long, long way wide of the mark."

"If you say so."

Boyd frowns. "I do. Now can we change the bloody subject?"

-oOo-

In the end, he's not what she expects. Then, Sarah isn't altogether sure what she _does_ expect. Physically, he's powerful, potent. There's a lot more muscle to him than she's ever imagined; seasoned, tough muscle, easily discernible beneath the softer flesh as she runs her hands greedily over him. His back and shoulders are striped with dark bruising, more evidence of what happened to him in that gloomy warehouse. His deep chest is smooth, very smooth. Naturally so, she assumes. No evidence of waxing or shaving. He doesn't strike her as that sort of man anyway. Vain as Boyd undoubtedly is, everything's pretty much _au __naturel_. Even the musky, distinctly male smell of him, cut though it is with a lingering trace of soap and expensive cologne, speaks of something very primal and unaffected.

He's good at what he does, and he takes his time doing it. That doesn't surprise her. There's an emotional distance in him, though. Something she's very well aware of. This is a physical thing, nothing else. There's no suggestion that it's anything more to him than a brief, pleasurable respite; a welcome release of tension. It's okay. She doesn't have room for emotional complications in her life, and she certainly doesn't feel anything more for him than comradeship and a hard-won and very grudging sort of respect. This is one of those purely circumstantial things. A thing that's good enough, but utterly, completely meaningless.

At close quarters his dark eyes are a fascinating mix of muted colours. Flecks of green and gold, not discernible at a distance. It does amaze her to discover that he can be remarkably gentle. Gentle is laudable, but it's not what she wants or needs and she makes him aware of it by biting him hard. His neck, his shoulders, even his chest. It makes him swear, but it has the desired effect. She wonders if the morning will reveal the tell-tale burn of stubble on her cheek, her chin. Probably. He's past five o'clock shadow by quite a way, and the bristle is sharp, harsh. She likes it.

Sarah knows he has seen straight into the heart of her when he says, "I have no interest in hurting you. You want to play rough, you chose the wrong guy."

She bites him again, just because she can. Bites him hard on the muscular curve between neck and shoulder, and Boyd curses and snaps his head and shoulders back, pulling out of harm's way. "Fuck's sake, Sarah…"

She bites, she claws, and in the end Boyd seizes hold of her wrists and brings his weight to bear. Pinned to the mattress Sarah can't do anything but rage and cry and swear. It's the alcohol, it's the pain. It's the memories that haunt and torment her, day and night. It's the guilt, the anger, the incredible, burning frustration. At some point Boyd releases her, and she curls into him instinctively, sobbing hard. Why he stays, Sarah simply doesn't know, but stay he does.

"I'm sorry," she manages in the end, deeply embarrassed. "God, I'm so sorry."

"Listen to me," his voice says, close to her ear. "You have to get this sorted. You're good at your job, and you can stay with the CCU for as long as you need to, but this… self-destruction… it's not good for anyone. You understand? You have to learn to live with your demons."

A little wan, she asks, "Like you do?"

Boyd sighs. "I'm not a great role model, Sarah. Talk to your damned shrink. Talk to Grace. Get it sorted. If you don't, your career's going to go straight down the pan. Is that what you want?"

"No, of course not…"

"Then get yourself straight," he says, sitting up. The bruises aren't the only marks on his back now. She can see the red nail marks scoring his skin, vivid and accusing. She watches in silence as he runs a hand through his silver hair. He seems to have sobered up. A lot. "I'll call a cab. You can drive my car in tomorrow. Just make sure you find your spare keys."

"Boyd…"

He turns his head, gazes at her steadily. "Get some sleep."

"Stay."

"No," he says simply, standing up. He collects his clothes together, starts to get dressed. "This is the last thing either of us need. It's not my job to punish you."

"It was just supposed to be a bit of fun."

Buckling his belt, he says, "I know. But we're both too damaged to risk having that sort of fun together."

He's right. She knows he is. Strangely, the strongest emotion flooding through her is relief. As he starts to button his shirt, she says, "Have a chat with Grace, Boyd."

"I don't think that's a very good idea, do you?"

"I don't mean about tonight. I mean about you. And her."

He shoots her a dark glare. "Oh, God, not that again. Just leave it, will you? So… are you going to be all right?"

She doesn't bother to think about the answer, just says mechanically, "Yeah. I'll have a bitch of a hangover in the morning, that's all."

He spares her a tight, wry grin. "You and me both."

"Boyd?"

"What?"

Sarah tries for a slight, sheepish smile. "Sorry."

"Don't start that again, for God's sake. I'll see you in the morning. And not a scratch on my car or I'll nail you to the floor."

"Yes… boss."

Boyd looks at her, then shakes his head. "You're a pain in the arse, Cavendish, you know that?"

"Yeah, that's why they sent me to join the misfits in the basement."

Boyd shrugs into his jacket. "Don't I know it. Go to sleep. I'll see myself out."

"Don't fall over the cat."

The only answer as he leaves the room is a bad-tempered grunt. Sarah stays where she is on the bed, listening to his progress through the flat. She hears the lock turn, the slight squeak of the door. Hears the door close and the muffled, quiet sound of his footsteps ascending the steps outside. Moments later, there's just the near-silence of the city at night.

-oOo-

The hangover is bad – but not quite as bad as the memories of the preceding night. Even driving Boyd's car is an unpleasant reminder. She can smell his cologne clinging to the driver's seat, and every time she glances in the rear-view mirror she's aware of his long, heavy coat lying on the back seat. It's a relief to park the vehicle and make her way into the building. When she reaches the offices of the Cold Case Unit, she's pleased to find the squad room's empty. There won't be any awkward questions about why she arrived driving Boyd's Audi. No sign of Grace in her office, but in the adjacent office Boyd is already behind his desk. Light suit, blue shirt. Impeccably groomed. His door is open and as she walks in he looks over the top of his reading glasses at her. "All right?"

"Fine," Sarah tells him. "Pig of a headache, that's all."

"I was asking about the car."

"Of course you were. It's fine. Not a mark on it. Here," she tosses his car keys onto his desk. "Thanks."

Boyd takes his glasses off and leans back in his chair. "You're seeing your shrink today."

It's not a question. She nods, "This afternoon, yes."

"Good."

She raises her eyebrows at him. "Anything else…?"

"I don't think so."

Sarah stares at him for several long moments. He gazes calmly back. She says, "I'll get there."

"I know you will. You're a good officer."

"Thank you," she says, a little disconcerted.

"Get out of here," Boyd says abruptly. "Find some bloody work to do."

She heads back towards the door. She stops, turns back towards him, "Last night…"

"…was just one of those things."

Sarah nods. "Okay. I found my spare car keys, by the way."

"I'm happy for you," he says dryly. "Go on, piss off."

"Pissing off," Sarah says promptly, and does so.

Everything's going to be all right, she thinks, walking towards her desk. She's straightened things out with Maureen Smith, found some sort of equable working level with Boyd, and perhaps even Grace will get used to her in time. She already knows she will move on to pastures new when she can, but suddenly the temporary limbo she finds herself in doesn't seem so bad. She's already hard at work when Spencer arrives, followed not many minutes later by Eve and Grace. The team are assembled, the working day is starting. Life may not exactly be good for Sarah Cavendish, but it's… okay. Things could be a lot worse.

_- the end -_


End file.
